Who doesn't have prison fanasties? Let's tap into the head of Kauai's Bruce Irons!

A favourite past-time of my childhood was to engage in Death Row fantasies. How would I handle the march to the Chair or to the gurney for the series of injections that would end my life?

What would my last meal consist of – would it be cheap calories (Bucket of original recipe KFC, peas with butter, two pints of mint and chocolate chip ice team, cherry Kool Aid) or organic and meditative (Kale chips, quinoa, beans)?

And given my squeamishness, what would be the crime that got me there in the first place?

All these things I’ve wondered and pondered. And I’m not the only one. In a series of interviews, BeachGrit has asked surfers of note to detail their Death Row decisions. Today, Kauai’s Bruce Irons.

What crime got y’here?

First-degree murder.

What would drive a man to such a malicious act? 

Maybe catching his wife cheatin’ on him. But, I couldn’t kill my baby’s momma. I mean, I’d sure wanna, but, murder, fuck, you’d be pretty damn mad with your wife’s lover. You’d chop em up, put em in some acid.

Y’gonna cannibalise the fool?
Would I eat him? I might as well, if you’re going to death row, I mean.

Did you enjoy the crime? 

Talking about it in the context of fantasy is one thing, but doing it is another. I’d wanna shoot myself after it, to clean that slate.

How’d you get caught? 

This is a fucking great topic. How’d I get caught? I wouldn’t. If you know you’re going to end up on death row, you’re fucked, so you might as well go on a killing spree, killing your estranged wife’s lover first. So you kill him, chop him up, pack up all your ammo and guns and go down the street and take the bank down, take down the squadron of police and go until you get killed so you don’t make it to death row. You go out in a blaze of glory, chopping down fucking everybody in your sight.

Let’s presume you don’t flame out and you get busted. Whom among your friends wilts? Who betrays you under police questioning? 

Y’know, a lot of people say they’re your “BOYS” but when push comes to shove, you’re lucky if you can count the fucking people on one hand who are solid.

What’s your method of execution? 

Electric chair, definitely. You might as well go out as a Hell Raiser.

Last phone call. 

Argh, my daughter. I’d tell her, Daddy’s gonna… daddy’s gonna (Bruce’s voice drops low, real low, emotional)… daddy’s gonna miss you, baby… 

Last conscious thought? 

What the fuck did I do?

Regret?

The only regret would be that I wouldn’t be there for my daughter. That would suck and I’d deserve to go to hell.

Who’s in the audience? 

Well, since I killed my wife’s estranged lover, I’d let her be there to watch me. This is fucked up, isn’t it?

What do you wear? 

A priestly gown.

Who do you give your boards to?

I’ll fucking burn my boards with me.

Last dream session

Big Hanalei Bay. Me and no one else.

Last-minute apologies

I apologise to nobody.

Last-minute regrets? 

No apologies and no regrets.

Last-minute religion? 

Any conversions? No, but here I come Ronnie Boy. He’s my friend. He shot himself about a year ago. You know the Volcom movie, the guy with the panties on his head? Yeah, he killed himself. High-caliber rifle straight to the head. Over a FUCKING CUNT! Yeah, well, that’s what I’m talking about. But, he killed himself instead of the chick.

Last meal?

I’d like to go for some New Zealand lamb cutlets, lightly marinated, served medium.

How do you meet your end? With dignity or a screaming mess? 

There’s no getting out of it so you just gotta suck it up. Alright, here comes the next chapter.

Soundtrack to execution? 

(Bruce shows your reporter a 45-minute documentary on the making of the Pink Floyd album, Dark Side of the Moon on his new iPad.)

Dark Side of the Moon, Pink Floyd.

Last cigarette? 

Even though I don’t smoke, I’d lung that fucker in one hit.

Last words? 

Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way.